


You Like to Hear Yourself Talk, Then Again So Do I

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: I forgot those tags uwu, Implied Addiction, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Revenge, Stridercest - Freeform, mild violence, premeditated murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was tired of watching him kill himself and then he wasn't even the one to get into fisticuffs with him over it. Sometimes it's dangerous how far he'll go for Dave.</p><p>[AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Like to Hear Yourself Talk, Then Again So Do I

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't really matter as I won't continue after this story, but consider all of the trolls humanized and every one of them male, just for kicks and story necessity.

            Dirk has been here before. He remembers it being a bit cleaner, a bit less scuffed up, and a lot less tired. He remembers the plexi-glass that glares a little under artificial lighting, he remembers the smell of paperwork and coffee and the unmistakable scent of dirt and what is probably marijuana hidden beneath a heavy coating of Lysol. His mental map extends further into processing rooms and long rows of chairs and thick rims of red on his wrists. Dirk does not remember that he had felt proud for ending up here. Dirk does not remember the exhilaration of being caught. As an officer drones through papers with him, he feels the chair stick to his butt through a pair of sweatpants and slides his feet back and forth in shoes a half-size too big.

            “Can I take him home tonight?”

            “I’ll see what I can do, son, but there’s no guarantee.” Dirk hates himself.

            He sits in a private family room in another plastic chair that grates against his back through his sleep shirt and cups a lukewarm cup of coffee in his hands. Nobody comes to get him. Nobody comes to talk to him. Dirk, in the back of his mind, begins to plot. And he’d always been such a fantastic planner.

 

            Dave is released to his custody well past nine in the morning. They sit in silence in the car for a few moments, Dirk’s hands resting on the wheel as he contemplates keeping it that way. He sees, in the corner of his eye, no shades to block his peripherals, the bruise blooming large and righteous across Dave’s cheek, up towards his temple. There is a fair bit of hair missing from his left temple arching over to his hair part, and Dirk knows this because he saw it when he sat in the hospital for hours before he relocated to an equally cramped chair in the precinct. He wants to say, wants to think, this should be punishment enough. Except he needs to say something, and it does not need to be, simply _can not_ be ‘I’m going to take care of this.’ And so it turns out that they stay silent.

            His little brother shimmies into the apartment like he’s shimmying into a different land, and his shoulders twitch into a slump, his eyelids droop lower and his feet slide across the floor. Dirk doesn’t pay him any mind. He slips off his shoes, slides his keys onto his desk with a muffled tinkle, and folds his shades before placing them on his CPU. Something blocks the hallway door halfway open and he squeezes through, sits in front of Dave’s door and watches him sleep, his knees hanging over the mattress corner and arms curled to his chest, under him, his back rising rhythmically. Dirk does this with a tightness, a silence, knees tucked to his chest and his forefinger tucked under his chin as he finalizes his plans.

 

            Their life is blatantly abnormal for almost a month. Dave’s bruising goes greenish-yellow before fading to a neat sickly yellow until it’s his pasty skin all over again. His head is another matter, but he takes to wearing a beanie and for once there are no comments over fashion statements. Dirk feels almost old. He basks in the feel of Dave returning to school, and also does not. It’s is one part guardianhood, one part brotherly affection, and two parts something else. Dirk doesn’t know what that something else is.

 

            The first words they say to each other in practically three weeks are mutual apologies. Dirk hasn’t expressed his feelings very often, not since he was a kid, and it’s a rare moment when he focuses those emotions on Dave. “Excuse me? What the hell do you have to be sorry for?” Dave’s ears stick out like gawky satellites on either side of his beanie, and he kneads his fingers into the knees of his jeans, all knobbly knuckles with skin as thin as webbing between them.

            “Myself.” Dave does not have a tone of voice that can be described as pathetic, ever. Dirk takes him by the shoulders, cups his face right under the jaw like they’re Greek and he’s going to kiss him square on the mouth. (He just may and probably not exactly for a salutary purpose.) “If you say that ever again, I’m going to be the one that put you like this, understand?” Dirk taught him well, because he does. He feels Dave’s jaw flex against his fingers as he nods and drops his hands into his laps as the slimy feeling of something very, very wrong creeps into his stomach.

 

            He doesn’t come home at all for two days. Dirk doesn’t like to leave Dave alone, really, but he knows his little bro hasn’t got a care in the world if he’s been absent these past few days. He knows that it’s not much of a difference from the past 19 years of Dave’s life, and he knows what he’s done isn’t going to make a difference either.

            Dirk knows how to punch. Dirk knows how to hustle pool. Dirk knows how to get a man just the right combination of tipsy and angry to get him in this intermingling state of arousal, to get him all too easily under his hands in a bathroom stall in the bus station. Dirk knows how to get his knee into someone’s diaphragm with a wall nearly brushing his shoulder on both sides.

            “You’re going to tell me something, anything really, because if not we both know how this ends, alright?” The man nods under him, face a begrudging mix of contempt and respect. His chest contracts in a choking breath beneath Dirk’s knee and he hopes it tastes like 409 and mucous. The guy’s broad enough, has straight long hair that he can somehow pull off and he could probably whoop Dirk’s ass if they really went at it, but Dirk has him in a corner. He’s always liked his mice with a good dose of fear in their veins beforehand. “Serket. Coke dealer. Russian. Goes by moronic pirate aliases sometimes.”

            “How do you know I’m your man?” He grins under Dirk’s glare and takes another staggering breath.

            “Insignificant. What you should be worried about is how I know that you’re the highest on a bodyguard squad for his imperious douchebagettry and that I can reach your weapon faster than you.” Dirk slides his foot down the man’s calf and watches the narrowing of his eyes, relishes the coiling feeling of fruition in his chest.

            “I get nothing out of this exchange.” Dirk nods slowly, smiling.

            “I’m glad we understand each other. You either die here, or…”

            “Die by whoever succeeds him.”

            “No wonder you’re top dog. So, tell me where he is and I’ll let you live for practically, oh, I don’t know, twenty-four more hours.”

            “Neither of us will make it that long.” Dirk does not smile at this.

 

            He cleans up well. Dirk sits at the kitchen table and lays his head on his hands, cooling faster than his body after just exiting the shower. He drips on the table and the chair and the floor and soaks up the room, the image, the feel. There is no way he is going to get arrested. But he may as well be incarcerated for all that’s going to come out of this.

            Dave is asleep when he slides into his bed, loses his towels in a mix of sheets and presses his fingers to the insides of his brother’s elbows. He mumbles, kicks out at Dirk in surprise at an intruder in his bed. Dirk is affixed with a glare for a long moment, but something changes the look on Dave’s face, and as he traces his fingernails along faint track lines, they meet somewhere in the middle of two sentences that wind together to sound like a remix of the same thing. “You’re an idiot.”

            He has never felt wrong. He always knows where he stands. He has mental maps, plans, calculations and he is together. _Together_. Dirk laughs against the bob of Dave’s Adams apple, sobs into his clavicle and in the span of seconds pulls himself into a trembling mess all over again. Dave kisses him like he has not been kissed in years, and he hasn’t, not like this, not by a boy he truly wanted to keep forever. He licks into his mouth, each stroke a word they’re not going to say and they kiss away whole conversations into the darkness of Dave’s room with city smog keeping dawn at bay.

            The pleasure of peeling away clothes belongs solely to Dirk, and he takes it with pride, fingers sliding over everything once twice thrice because he wants to memorize it all. Dave is a mess, and he kisses over the scar on his scalp as they lazily roll against each other and Dave gives a small breathless moan into his neck. He’s all too ready to part his legs by the time Dirk slides his boxers off silent and slow, but Dirk closes them right back up with his palms and pushes him back against the mattress, levers his weight over him and kisses _Dave_ breathless. “This is not what I wanted.” _I’m sorry._

“You know something bro?” _For what?_

“It does amaze me when you teach me- what is it, Dave?” _Myself._ He stills his hands under the arch of Dave’s back, holds their hips together and watches Dave speak around a full-body shudder. “You never could lie to me.” _I want you all the same._

            He leaves him spread out and flushed on the sheets for a few moments, and when he comes back he has _bedroom eyes_ , and Dirk could die, could positively keel over and forgo this whole ordeal of leaving his brother worse off than ever if not for them. They twist up together on top of the sheets, and Dirk presses cold lube between Dave’s thighs until he has it warm and Dave is squirming, a bony-pasty mess on the bedspread. Dirk has to walk him through it, the not clamping his thighs too tight but tight enough, the way this can be pleasurable for him too if he pays attention. And somewhere in the middle Dave arches like a practiced contortionist and keens his name, not _Bro_ , not one of his breathless gasps. It knocks him out of rhythm, and Dave lays panting and spent while Dirk doesn’t know what to do, is so hard from this very image he could be the Michaelangelo, until Dave sucks a very nice scream out of him minutes later. He takes his time while Dave sleeps to map his face and torso and everything to memory.

            Dirk knows the maps of Houston and his little brother’s body and they are two very important things.

 

            They move somewhere cold, unbearably so. Dave’s hair grows back. Dirk lives more than the estimated 24 hours, about thirty or forty years more and there has never been a regretful bone in his body about killing for his brother.


End file.
